


Cosmic Joke

by scheherazade



Category: British Comedy RPF
Genre: A Romantic Comedy in Three Acts, Blatant Disregard for Facts and Timelines, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:50:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Jon's grown up a bit coddled, but more self-aware than most when it comes to his own failings. He wants to believe it's a sign of greater things. The boys you liked in school are too often the same ones that history books forget.</i>
</p><p><i>Russell is one of those. He's got a lazy eye and lazier smile. Then he starts talking and it's all manic energy, one crazy story after the next, words tripping over each other like his two clumsy feet.</i><br/> </p><p>In which Jon and Russell are terrible at communicating, and Humphrey Ker is a gentle knight in shining armor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cosmic Joke

**Author's Note:**

> Might as well categorize this as AU, what with my flagrant disregard for actual timelines and facts and origin stories. Basically this is a rom-com without much comedy and not much romance either. So it's kind of just a -. Feedback appreciated. This fic made possible by friends, JDarkRoom, and viewers like you.

The first time they meet, Russell laughs at him. 

Jon's grown up a bit coddled, but more self-aware than most when it comes to his own failings. He wants to believe it's a sign of greater things. The boys you liked in school are too often the same ones that history books forget. 

Russell is one of those. He's got a lazy eye and lazier smile. Then he starts talking and it's all manic energy, one crazy story after the next, words tripping over each other like his two clumsy feet.

Jon only knows his name because Russell comes to the restaurant more often than you'd expect of a twenty-something Liverpool supporter, all big glasses and poor taste in jumpers. He's usually with friends. When he's alone he strikes up conversation with the waiters — and with Jon, just as he's leaving after his shift.

"So what's your real day job then?" Russell asks, cheeky. 

Jon knots the scarf around his neck. "Liverpool CFO," he quips. "I dunno. Always wanted to try stand-up, just never knew where to start."

Russell laughs. Jon can't tell if it's disbelief or delight. Then Russell reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ripped envelope. On the back he scribbles an address and a date.

"My mate Tim's doing a gig there next week. We know the owner. If you've got material, I reckon he'll give you mic time."

Jon takes the envelope. "Thanks," he says, and it comes out inflected almost like a question.

"Help each other help ourselves, yeah?" Russell's smiling at him. "I'll see you there."

Jon dithers about for the next seven days. He goes over old jokes he's written and rewords them obsessively in his head. Distracted, he nearly burns a pot of water on Monday. Costanza sends him home early to avoid a run-in with health and safety.

On Wednesday he goes to the club Russell had written down. He lurks until the bartender tells him to get a drink or get out. Jon orders a beer. The bloke currently on stage is decent. Gets a few laughs from the crowd, and loud hoots from his mates near the front. 

The one after is markedly worse. He takes his bow to lukewarm applause. Jon checks his watch. Maybe he should leave. 

There's a screech of feedback and a familiar voice says into the mic, 

"Sorry, sorry! Blimey, that's the loudest sound's ever greeted me when I got up on stage."

Basking in the resultant laughter is Russell. And for the next twenty minutes, it's all him.

He's good. Fucking hell, he's _brilliant_. Jon wants to sneak out the door and never come back. Because if someone like Russell is stuck doing gigs like this? There's no hope for him. He might as well go home now.

Russell catches his eye toward the end of his set. He grins, gives Jon a furtive thumbs up, and Jon stays put. He watches Russell step off stage, slapping backs and bumping fists, meandering his way through the crowd.

"Hey," he begins, once he's made it over to Jon, "What'd you think then?"

"Could've told me you're a stand-up," Jon says.

Russell snags the barstool next to him. "You couldn't tell from my delightful humor? My effortless charm?"

"Might've mistaken you for a thesaurus."

Russell snorts, but he's grinning ear to ear. He waves for the bartender. Asks Jon, "What do you drink?"

Two pints and four-odd hours later, Russell has talked Jon into polishing up some material into a presentable form. Three gigs and two months after that, he's firmly planted himself in the middle of Jon's new life. Jon only ever had two friends in Bristol to begin with. These days he sees Russell more than he speaks to his own mum — who, incidentally, wholeheartedly approves of her son befriending "such a nice lad" for a change.

Jon doesn't tell her that Russell once put his kid brother in the bin when he thought no one was looking. Anyone worth knowing is a weirdo in his own way. Russell just hides it better than most.

"We're looking for a flatmate," Russell mentions off-hand, "if you know anyone wouldn't mind sharing with a couple clowns like us."

Jon says, "I know me."

He watches the grin split right across Russell's face, like a crack in an egg. And that, right there — that's how it begins.

 

* * *

 

Jon knows that he's a bit queer. He likes things ordered in lists and can't step on cracks in the pavement without a shudder passing through the soles of his feet. He finds humans difficult, but beautiful.

He likes people who make him laugh, because jokes are universal if you do them right. Humor is the algebra of verbal communication. Jon's always liked maths. It's nice, having answers — applause — to tell him when he's got something right.

"You can't solve human beings for x," Russell laughs over a cup of tea. 

Jon snatches the spoon from his mug before Russell can stick it back in the sugar bowl. He returns the milk to the fridge, too, in case Russell forgets again.

"They should put numbers on people," Jon says. "Make things easier."

"What, like identification tags?"

"No. Like museum exhibits. Tell you what you need to know."

"Hand out forms with little boxes." Russell mimes ticking them off. "Please list your general habits and preferred mode of interaction."

"Exactly. With easy numerical references."

"Yeah, except they'd be like, i and e and logarithms."

Russell likes numbers, though he likes people better. It works, the two of them, taking the piss and cracking jokes for the benefit of friends and the people who tune in to Russell's radio show. Which turns into _their_ radio show after a while, and some days Jon still can't believe his luck.

In moments of self-indulgent loathing, Jon thinks he'd be nothing, literally nothing, without this. Other times, he thinks he'd be much happier without Russell.

Because Russell is clever and hilarious and baffling. They play up their differences for comedic effect, but it starts in truth. Russell embraces situations with open laughter; Jon hangs back, looking for the punch line. They clash at odd angles, laugh at the same things.

And because Russell's also a bit of an arse, one of those things is Jon.

Living with Russell makes Jon realize that there's no living with Russell, or with any of his friends. They're loud. They're messy. They're lads. They look at Jon like he's some humorous experiment, and his compulsions are the symptoms of jokes in progress. Jon tries to play along. But increasingly, it feels like Russell's laughing at him and not with him.

They have two pillows on their settee, one blue and one green. Jon sets them in the corners, tidy like, and asks the others to keep them there, if you please. Just this one concession to order, amidst the general chaos of their shared sitting room.

Jon wakes up one rainy Monday to find the blue pillow in its corner and the green one perched on an arm. He puts it back. 

When he gets back in the evening, the green pillow is positioned in the middle of the settee.

The next day it's at an incongruent angle to the blue.

He keeps putting it back. And it keeps moving. Every day, every few hours. It rains the whole week. On Friday, he works a gig where only ten people show up, and comes home to find the green cushion balancing precariously on the edge of the settee. He grabs it before it can fall.

On the pillow is stuck an orange note. _Why wont u let me be? :(_

Jon crumples the note. Sets the pillow firmly in its place. Breathes. Goes and knocks on Russell's door. John answers. He takes one look at Jon's face and bursts out laughing.

"You owe me ten quid!" he says to Russell, who's sat on an unmade bed.

Jon drags Russell into the kitchen and asks him why. Why would he do that? Why, when he knew?

"It's a joke, mate," Russell says, all fond tones and secret smiles. He flicks Jon's ear, which he _knows_ he hates. "C'mon, Jon-Joe. We were just having a laugh. You're too serious about everything."

Jon shuts himself in his room and spends most of Saturday in his car. He can't be in that flat right now, not with the cushions and the pranks. 

He'll go back eventually, he knows. He'll forgive Russell, because he always does. Because Russell's the reason he's even here, doing what he likes, even if it's going nowhere. Even if the best joke he's got is himself. Even if.

Jon's good at maths. He can put two and two together and realize, crying into the steering wheel at three a.m., that he's gone and fallen in love with this prick who also happens to be his best — maybe only — friend.

 

* * *

 

When it all really goes to hell is after Russell's first show in London. Radio is one thing. Hundreds of people paying to see him, just him, is a whole new league.

There's a party with greasy food and Jon's baking and as much booze and as many friends as can fit into their flat. It goes about as well as Jon expected, which is not very. 

He hangs about in the kitchen. Someone's got to rinse the plates and keep the bin from overflowing.

"Paranoia!" Sue declares at one point. Apparently it's a game. Something to do with whispering and giggling and inappropriate touching. Jon thinks a better name would be Discomfort.

"Mark," Russell says, to a round of hoots. 

Mark Watson's eyes go wide behind his stupid glasses. "What? What was the question? Why'd you say me?" 

"Truth or dare if you want to know!"

"Dare!" someone shouts, and it richocets like sound off cavern walls. _Dare! Dare!_

The whole flat smells of cheap alcohol. Jon watches Mark kiss Russell on the mouth. The girls catcall. Russell laughs, and Jon opens their last bottle of wine.

Later, with Sue passed out on the settee and a mess of cups still in the sink, they retreat to Jon's room. Russell takes a bottle of gin and they split what's left. 

"That was great," Russell's saying. "Cake was really great. Is there any left?"

"You'll rot your teeth," Jon tells him, and gets a scoff for his trouble.

"There's this shop in London, like by Brick Lane? Best cake. Best. I'd bring you there, I would."

The clock is ticking toward dawn. Between the alcohol and the people, Jon feels fuzzy and exhausted. Russell's socks are dirty on Jon's duvet. It doesn't seem so important, just then.

Russell's still going on about London. Jon watches his lips move.

"Would you have kissed me?" he blurts out. 

Russell blinks. 

It takes him a few seconds to work out the meaning. Then he laughs. "What, Mark? That was a joke. But did you see the look on Matty's face?"

Jon unsticks his tongue and laughs along with him. Because, right. A joke. Jon's getting used to turning his entire life into a joke, though the punch lines have been pretty shit so far.

The next morning, Russell wanders into the kitchen and finds Jon rearranging the silverware. Russell bumps his hip in passing. 

Jon flinches.

Russell stops. His confused look fades into hurt, then contempt, when Jon refuses to meet his eyes.

"Right, then," he says, to Jon's back. He puts the kettle on. 

Jon finishes putting the teaspoons all facing left, and flees. They never mention it again.

 

* * *

 

Six months on, they're living 131 kilometers apart, and Jon refuses to touch anything with gin in it.

Probably a good thing. He's drinking too much as it is.

These days, Russell is much in demand. Russell is also shit at returning calls. So this is how it goes: one-hundred thirty-one kilometers between London and Swindon, twenty-four hours in a day, three-hundred sixty-five days in a year, and zero phone bills to speak of.

They'd talked about Edinburgh — they were always talking about Edinburgh — but Jon can barely drag himself out the front door most days, much less up to Scotland.

The radio show is miserable. There's too much time spent feeling sorry for himself and not enough time coming up with new material. There's nothing to talk about. He's plumbed his life for humor and found mostly bitterness.

He considers going back to school. Or the restaurant. Or home. 

What he ends up doing is writing — a lot. It starts out as unsent emails and journal entries, and ends, somehow, as a book. A book has one advantage over stand-up, in that it lets him tell longer stories than a twenty-minute gig.

It lets him say things like: 

_"I don't mean to hate people, I just get forced into it."_

And:

_"I know very well that I have no reason to feel aggrieved — I am fully aware of how lucky I am, but knowing it and still being down makes me hate myself all the more."_

And:

_"Anyone who tells you that it is better to have loved and lost than to never loved at all has never done both."_

It doesn't fix anything, but he's heard catharsis is good for you. Things will get better. Slowly, like him, edging in the direction of all right.

 

* * *

 

The panel shows are more than all right. Sean is a bit of a dick, but so is Jon, and between the two of them they just about manage to compensate for the fact of Jimmy Carr.

People actually like him. Or what they see of him, the cute little oddities of Jon Richardson's pernickety nature. That "O-C-D", they'll say, making it sound like a place in Narnia. Jon goes with it. It's livable, these days, because living on his own means no one's there to mess up his socks or put a wet teaspoon in the sugar bowl. Sometimes, he can almost imagine spending the rest of his life like this.

Which is, of course, when he meets Humphrey Ker.

 

* * *

 

Jon's initial thoughts on Humphrey Ker are as follows: too tall, too nice, too posh. Also, he's a flirt.

The last part isn't technically a first impression. Because it's been — not years, but getting there, since anybody seriously flirted with him. Jon nearly gets whiplash on the double-take when he realizes why Humphrey's been hanging around him before _8 Out of 10 Cats_ and practically off him during the show.

It's not Jon's best moment. Nor his most subtle.

Humphrey smiles like a bloody toothpaste advert, all soft eyes and perfect teeth. During one of the recording breaks, he asks,

"Are you actually hopeless at dating, or is it part of the act?"

Jon lets out a laugh that's a bit too close to a giggle. "Well. A man's opinion of himself is never reliable, is it?"

"Always need an outside perspective?"

"Something like that, yeah."

Humphrey leans just a bit closer. Jon doesn't swivel his chair away.

"So, you doing anything later?"

 

* * *

 

They end up at a pub watching replays of the weekend's football. Turns out Humphrey's a Liverpool supporter. Jon gives him shit for it.

"What's it like, still living in 2005?"

"I'm indoctrinating my nephew. Time doesn't matter so much to a five year old."

"And I thought _I_ hated kids."

Humphrey just laughs and buys him another drink. Jon feels a bit like a girl, but there's nobody around to comment, and he's kind of missed being spoiled.

They split a cab back. Jon thinks he ought to protest, but can't quite think why. That last shot of tequila probably wasn't the greatest idea. The cab stops in front of his block of flats. 

Jon holds onto the door, partly for balance. Mostly for thinking. Though his brain's not quite catching up.

"D'you want to come in?" he asks.

The cabbie gives a theatrical sigh. But Humphrey's looking at him. Humphrey's getting out of the cab, and Jon's brain jump-starts with _oh shit_ he hasn't vacuumed in a _week_ and Humphrey takes up so much space he'd disorder Jon's life by simple virtue of molecular displacement and—

"I'd like to," Humphrey says, "just not tonight. But some other time."

Jon looks up when a hand touches his cheek. The kiss is warm and stubbly, chafes him and smothers him. By the time Humphrey draws back, Jon's fingers are curled tight in his stupid hair and oh, he is _beyond_ fucked.

He gets another one of those stupid (amazing) smiles. 

"Good night, Jon."

"Night," he manages, and watches the cab disappear around the bend.

 

* * *

 

"Some other time" turns out to be a month later. And if Jon's counting (which he is) this would probably qualify as the third date. They have dinner at a tasteful place that Humphrey picks out, and Jon barely manages to get to the bill first.

They go back to his flat. Jon lets him hold the door. Humphrey hangs up his coat without prompting, places his shoes neatly on the rack, and Jon kisses him right there in the entryway. 

Because etiquette is one thing; consideration is rare. Humphrey's old-fashioned manners would be laughable if they weren't so sincere. He's disgustingly tall and disgustingly posh and utterly charming in a hopeless sort of way.

He dwarfs Jon. And instead of threatened, it makes Jon feel safe. He likes being held, enveloped; cared for.

He likes waking up to someone there. Likes washing two sets of plates in the sink. On Sundays, Humphrey moans about the football results, and Jon mocks him and makes him toast.

Humphrey always puts things back where he found them. He wears glasses when he reads. His eyes are sleepy and kind.

For most people, that would be enough.

 

* * *

 

"You're in a good mood," Sean remarks before a show.

Jon adjusts his yellow cardigan. "You know me. Always the ray of sunshine."

Sean gives him a suspicious look. Jon wonders if he can make Sean sprain a nerve, and how long he'll have to keep up the pleasant smile before it happens.

Jimmy doesn't notice anything. Nobody else comments on his mood or his smile. So Jon's not exactly prepared when Josh Widdicombe pulls him aside during lunch break and whispers furiously,

"You bastard! Going on about being single whilst you've been secretly shagging _Humphrey Ker._ "

He deserves some credit, Jon thinks, for taking only five seconds to modulate his voice back into a reasonable octave. "Who told you that?"

"It's the 21st century, mate. And I've got eyes." Which are now fairly glinting with mischief. 

"Aren't you a bit...prepubescent for this?"

"Love knows no age, and you can stuff it. But go on. What's he like?"

And Jon is not going anywhere _near_ that. "Well, Josh," he says in his best posh voice, "sometimes when a man and a man love each other very much, they go on national television—"

"Oh, fuck off."

"—and tell squeegee jokes in order to discomfit Jimmy Carr."

Josh mock punches him. "I'll have a straight answer from you yet." A grin. "Or not so straight, considering."

He saunters off, still chuckling to himself. Jon leans against the wall and ignores the passing interns' curious looks.

"Two minutes, Mr. Richardson," one of them says.

He nods absently. He knows Josh won't bring it up again today, because Josh likes squirrelling away bits of information for later. Hoards them, almost. Which is good, considering Jon isn't sure what answers he could give.

He's had too much time to think about relationships, thanks to his lack thereof, and he knows that wanting company, comfort, care — is different than being loved.

 

* * *

 

Matt invites them to his New Year's party, and agreeing to go is Jon's first mistake. Because anybody Matt has ever worked with was invited, and half of them have turned up. Every last square inch of the house is crowded with alcohol and holiday cheer. 

It's the sort of thing that Jon would already find mentally exhausting without the added menace of Josh Widdicombe on a mission. He spends two minutes saying hello to people he knows, and half an hour fending off Josh's inquisition on his love life. ("Is he funny? Like proper funny, without a script?" "Do you bicker over the football?" "You know what they say about tall guys—")

Humphrey himself has disappeared somewhere in the middle of all this. He eventually turns up at the far side of the room, chatting with Whitehall and Mitchell, which is too much posh for Jon to process without another drink or three.

He shakes off Josh and makes for the kitchen, which is his second mistake.

Because the kitchen is empty but for someone opening a beer on the worktop, and that someone is Russell. 

And it's not as if they haven't seen each other plenty since — well, in Jon's mind, since everything went to shit. For Russell, it probably classifies as "since everything fell into place". But they get by, following two simple rules that Jon made up in his head: 1) he waits for Russell to say hi first, and 2) if Russell doesn't care, then neither does he.

Jon stands with his feet inside the seams of the wide floor tiles and waits. Russell notices him right away. But he doesn't say hi. What he does say is,

"Rumor going around about you and Ker."

Jon blinks. "Oh. That."

"So it's true, then?"

"Dunno. I haven't heard the rumor."

"Can't be that hard to guess."

It's a bit surreal, is what he'll remember later. It doesn't feel like a conversation. More like Russell throwing marbles, or hand grenades. 

_Thought you moved out because you couldn't stand people,_ Russell says. 

And: _How much space must he take up, I mean, look at the size of him._

And: _Have you trained him to do the teaspoons right?_

And: _It's a bit surprising, yeah?_

"Why?" Jon snaps. He's shaking. "What, you think I'm that ineligible?"

Something flashes over Russell's expression, too quick to read. "Just didn't think it was true. You've been single for, what, like five hundred years? You don't do relationships. That's kind of your selling point."

"He sells fine either way, I'd say."

—Humphrey. He strolls over, subtly interjects himself between Jon and Russell. Who notices. Of course he notices. That's what makes him brilliant: he notices everything and can spin stories and stories from noticing. Jon backs toward the wall for support.

Russell lifts his chin. "I've known him a lot longer than you."

Humphrey cocks his head. "Is that so?"

"It is."

"Then you won't mind me interrupting just this once."

"We were having a conversation, actually, so if you'd fuck off."

"Do you know, I don't think I will."

Russell glares harder. Humphrey doesn't budge. Russell turns to Jon and snags his elbow.

"Come on, come out to the patio."

Jon jerks back, and immediately regrets the move. Because just like that morning all those years ago, Russell freezes. Only this time, it's not hurt on his face, but anger.

"Relationship my arse. You can't even stand being touched, can you? Just look at you—"

Russell brushes his thumb across Jon's cheek, past his ear, a bright shock of warmth and skin.

Humphrey punches him. Russell crashes against the worktop, swearing muffled by the hand clamped over his nose. Jon thinks he sees a trickle of blood.

He remembers going back to the entryway and searching for his shoes. He remembers Matt's thunderous expression and Josh's anxious face. He remembers someone opening a cab door for him. He doesn't remember the drive, except in flashes of light and blue. 

Humphrey follows him into the flat.

"I think," Jon says, "it's best if we don't see each other for a while."

 

* * *

 

He locks himself in the bathroom. Lies in the tub with a towel pulled over himself until the shaking stops. 

When he re-emerges, Humphrey's glasses are gone from the night stand, and the sitting room is dark. 

Down the street people are cheering _Happy new year!_ It's January 1st. Liverpool will play Sunderland in the afternoon. Humphrey had planned on going to the pub. Jon wonders if Russell will, too.

Because he knows, can admit to himself, that glasses and tea and LFC will always remind him of Russell, the way so many other things do. Things like stamps and marbles and mismatched socks. Newspapers and radio. Comedy. Bristol.

And sometimes, even, home.

 

* * *

 

Humphrey calls after two days.

"I'd like to see you. If that's all right."

Jon tells him yes, puts the kettle on and waits. Humphrey knocks on the door rather than use his key. He's wearing glasses and a green jumper. Jon lets him in.

"Thought I'd get the rest of my things," Humphrey says, two cups of tea between them. "And to talk. You know."

Jon taps his fingers against his mug. He doesn't know what to say. _That's fine,_ seems too cold. _It's my fault,_ seems a bit much.

"Are you angry with me?" he asks instead.

Humphrey shrugs, discomfort not dismissal. "I should be," he says slowly. "But no, I don't think I am, really." And, after a pause, "Are _you_ angry with me?"

Jon looks down into his tea. "A bit, yeah."

"Can I ask why?"

It's very quiet, all of a sudden. Usually there's a hum of things running. Or neighbors being rude. Jon never misses noise until it's gone.

"I don't need you to defend me," he says. "That's not what this is."

And Humphrey just looks sad, sort of, all wistful tones and tired smiles.

"Yeah. I should've known."

"I'm sorry," Jon offers.

Humphrey says, "Me, too."

The silence is over-long. Jon breaks first. "He's right, you know. I'm no good at this. I need everything just the way I want it, and that doesn't work with another person here."

Humphrey doesn't lie and contradict him. What he does say is, "I'd never ask you to change things for me."

"I know. I wouldn't anyway."

They share a smile, and Jon thinks: _that's the problem._

 

* * *

 

The flat feels empty, orderly, with Humphrey gone. Jon rearranges things to cover up the gaps. He spends a Saturday off cleaning, everything from the bathtub to the heirloom cufflinks his nan gave him for his 21st.

Around two, he walks down to the Pret for a coffee. He's just got his drink when a voice says,

"Jon?"

He turns around and finds a big pair of eyes behind a truly ridiculously-sized pair of specs — belonging to, of course, Mark Watson. Jon checks for mutual acquaintances in the vicinity: none. He also checks for convenient escape paths, and comes to the same result.

He puts on a smile. "Hi."

They exchange pleasantries, dead-end lines of conversation. Jon shuffles toward the door; Mark follows him outside and down the block.

"Were you at Matt's new year's do?" he asks.

Oh, Christ. "Yeah. You?"

"I had a gig," Mark says. He hesitates. Jon knows what's coming next, and sure enough, "Is everything all right with you and Russell?"

"Yeah, fine," Jon lies. "Why?"

"It's just he's been, I dunno. Acting kind of odd?" Mark flaps his hands a bit. "I thought maybe. Like, you know. You or something."

Jon waits for his half-formed clauses to exhaust themselves. "Well, you'd know more than me."

"No, I mean. But you two have been friends forever. Right?"

"Don't think he cares that much, mate."

Mark doesn't look convinced. Jon would ask what of, but sometimes dignity is worth just that little bit more. 

They've reached his building. "This is me," he says pointedly. "Was nice seeing you, Mark."

"Yeah. You, too."

But he's still standing there, as if waiting for something. Jon looks back out the window once he's inside. The pavement is empty.

 _Good,_ he thinks, and draws the curtains shut.

 

* * *

 

It's a week later, in the middle of a full day of taping, when an intern knocks on his dressing room door. Jon has a headache thanks to Sean and Jimmy, and Katherine Ryan isn't helping.

"Mr. Richardson?"

"What," he mumbles from the armchair he most definitely is not trying to disappear into. 

The intern holds out a cordless phone. "Someone for you."

There's no caller ID. Jon sighs and puts it to his ear. "Hello?"

"We need to talk," says Russell. 

Jon freezes. The intern, with their species' finely-tuned sense of self-preservation, closes the door and scurries away.

"Okay," Jon manages. "About what?"

"Not over the phone. Where are you?"

"In the middle of something. Look—"

"I'm in studio four."

—right around the corner. Oh, god.

"I'm kind of busy," he tries again, but Russell's already seen through it.

"You have lunch break. I'll bring you a sandwich. What do you want?"

Which is how Russell ends up in his dressing room on a Wednesday afternoon, arms crossed and lunch forgotten. He wants to talk about Mark, because of course. It _would_ be Mark Watson's fault that everything's going to shit. Again.

Russell leads with, "Why'd you tell him I don't care what you think?"

"What?" is Jon's very intelligent reply.

"Mark says he ran into you."

"More like he followed me home. I just wanted a cup of coffee."

"How stupid do you think he is?" Russell demands. "We've known each other for years."

"Are you talking about Mark or me now?"

"Both!"

Okay. "Well, I don't know him. What's he even doing here? Doesn't he live in Bristol?"

"Have I done something wrong?" Russell asks. "What have I done to make you hate me?"

Jon opens his mouth. Closes it. There's nothing and everything to say, and his way of compromising is a strangled sort of laugh. 

"Are you serious?"

"Try me."

"Did you suddenly become religious? Is that what this is? Guilt?"

Russell shakes his head, face taut with disbelief. "Am I not good enough for you? Is that it? Now it's all about your boyfriend and that Widdicombe kid, so we're just going to stop being friends?"

And Jon wants to say something meaningful, he really does. But that — " _What?_ "

Out in the corridor someone shouts that they're resuming in ten. Russell makes a frustrated sound. He looks at his watch.

"I'll be late, too," he mutters. But he stops in the doorway, pointing meaningfully at Jon. "We're not finished with this."

"I'll ring you later," Jon says, automatic. Now why the fuck did he say that?

Maybe the consternation showed on his face, because he thinks he sees a flicker of a smile just before Russell goes.

 

* * *

 

"Mark says you're avoiding him," Russell mentions the next time. 

It's raining, and they're at a pub. Saturday night. Plenty of ambient noise to hide their voices from others' ears. Not that anyone's listening, with a quiz getting underway.

"He says you blanked him last time at Pinewood. Tim was there. He saw it."

"Is it always going to be about Mark?" Jon snaps before he can help himself.

Russell frowns. "Why do you hate him?"

"I don't hate him."

"You don't like him." 

"There's no rule that says we have to like each others' friends." 

"It'd make things easier." 

Jon drinks his beer. "You don't like Humphrey."

"He kind of punched me in the face." 

"You were kind of being a dick." 

Russell shrugs, casual, daring him to ask. Jon has no idea what the question's supposed to be. 

"I'm not seeing him," Jon says, "anymore." 

That gets Russell's attention. "You what?" 

"I'm not saying it again."

"Right," Russell mutters. "Right. Yeah, okay." And then, "We should probably talk about this somewhere else."

"Sometime else," Jon says, finishing his drink. "I've got work tomorrow. And so do you."

"Yeah. No, right. You're right."

Russell finds their umbrellas and walks him to the tube station. "Later," he says. Jon just waves, quickly ducks inside to avoid being splashed by a passing cab.

It's not until he's halfway home that Jon realizes he's locked in their next conversation. Argument. Friendship contract negotiation? He doesn't even know what this is. But suddenly, "later" is a lot more terrifying than any five-letter word has a right to be.

 

* * *

 

Sunday, the tiny studio flat Russell keeps in West London. 

"You've not been over once," is the winning argument when Jon protests.

Russell makes tea. Jon coughs when Russell starts to reboil the water that was already in the kettle. Russell pours it out and makes a fresh pot.

The flat is neater than Jon expected. He's not sure if this means that Russell has grown as a person, or that he himself has failed to. 

They sit at the breakfast bar. The stools are a bit too high for him. Maybe it's a function of his general discomfort. Jon's got a feeling that whatever anorexic chance there'd been of pretending their last conversation never happened is, by now, skeletal. Or dead.

"Right," says Russell. "So. Humphrey Ker."

And yeah, dead and disintegrated.

"Why do you care so much?" he hears himself ask. Which, in retrospect, is maybe not the most diplomatic thing to lead with.

Russell aggressively over-milks his tea. "It's my job." 

"It really isn't. Especially when—" And he doesn't know how to finish that sentence. He's got a crick in his neck. His leg's going numb.

"Especially when what?" 

"It's all a joke to you, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Isn't that how this started?"

"How what started?"

Jon really, truly hates Russell in his obstinate mood. "When you started avoiding me," he says, "because — well, I don't know. Because you thought I'd turn you or something. And then it wouldn't be so funny anymore, would it?"

Russell blinks. He puts his mug down so hard, milky tea sloshes over the sides; Jon cringes.

"You thought I had a problem with you being _gay_?"

"I'm not gay."

"Queer, bi, whatever. _Jesus_ , Jon. I'd never do that! Me!"

"No. You could barely stand being around me after," Jon remembers — though now he's not completely sure. "You only talked to me when we had to work together. And you fucked off to London first chance you got, didn't you?"

"I was _busy_." Russell slams his hand on the worktop. "Why is that so hard for you to understand? Not everything's about you, you prick. And I don't have the time, sometimes, I just—" 

Jon is leaning as far back as he can without falling off his seat. Russell makes a twisted, frustrated sound. "I was busy. All right?"

And no, it's not all right. Because they'd stopped talking for months at a time, for chrissakes. Entire summers of seeing him only on telly, hearing him on the radio. After years of living out of each others' pockets. Forgiveness only goes so far.

"There's no way," Jon says around the lump in his throat, "no way were you so busy you couldn't even _act_ like you still gave a shit about me."

"You were busy, too," Russell shoots back. But he's looking away: guilty. "It's not like I'm your only friend."

"You might as well have been."

Russell flinches. It isn't as satisfying as Jon might have hoped.

"It's not exactly easy, you know," he says, "living with you."

"Could say the same for you."

"Not my fault you have OCD."

"And not my fault you're a dick."

"Your fault for moving in with us," Russell says.

Jon shrugs. "Your fault for inviting me."

They lapse into silence. It's almost companionable, this air of remorse. Like being surrounded by slinking cats. He's never been fond of cats.

"You remember that thing with the pillows?" Jon says after a bit. "Because of that, I can't use orange paper. To this day."

Russell gives him an odd look. "Does it matter?"

"You try color-coding a week using only green, pink, and yellow. You can't write properly on purple ones, can you?"

"Oh, you are having me _on_ ," Russell says, and just like that, they're off again.

 

* * *

 

It's starting to become a habit, Jon realizes, the next time Russell crashes his dressing room with an egg sandwich and side of grievances. 

They argue, remember, fight — about Mark, about Josh, about Russell's muddy shoes on Jon's ugly green rug. Sometimes they get in a few laughs before the accusations start. Sometimes Jon laughs in Russell's face, over the absurdity of it all. Nothing is off limits, and each fight follows on the last, lenghtening and brightening like the days passing into spring. 

Jon details all the obnoxious, hurtful things Russell used to do when they lived together. Russell retorts with every cold shoulder and brush-off Jon subjected him to in the last five years.

Russell demands to know what he was thinking. So Jon tells him, blow for blow, like loosening a baby tooth until it comes free.

"Why didn't you ever just _say_ any of this?" Russell asks, mid-April, furious and elated. "You just keep everything in that head of yours, like you're storing up for some cosmic joke with no punch line."

There are two words that never come up, but even so. Maybe, Jon thinks, maybe this is their way of saying sorry.

 

* * *

 

"I guess we're even," Russell slurs one Friday. They've gone through two bottles of wine, and he's curled up on Jon's sofa.

"For what?"

"You know. Your thing."

Jon nudges Russell's feet off the coffee table. Russell grumbles and tucks them under himself. Then he says, "I slept with Mark, and you hate him." 

"I don't hate him," Jon says, feeling too sober for one in the morning.

"But you didn't know. D'you hate him more now?"

"No. I don't. He's your friend."

"He told me to do this, you know," Russell mumbles. "You owe him."

"Owe him?"

There's no reply; Russell's fallen asleep.

Jon pulls a blanket over him, puts an aspirin and a glass of water on the coffee table. Leaves the light on in case Russell wakes up later. He steps carefully over the tangle of laptop and phone charger cords by the sofa. 

Russell's Macbook is still open. The word document is half-filled with jokes they'd been working on before it devolved into bickering again. Jon closes the lid.

In the morning, Russell is still sound asleep when Jon walks past him to the kitchen. He makes breakfast. The smell of frying eggs wakes Russell. His tousled head pops up blearily over the back of the sofa.

"Morning," Jon says.

"Wha' time'sit?"

"Half eight." 

Russell groans. Jon hears him pad to the bathroom. The toilet flushes. The tap runs. Russell wanders into the kitchen minutes later, glass of water in his hand. His hair is damp and the front of his shirt is half-soaked. 

"The tiles'll get moldy if you drip on them," Jon says absently. 

"It is way too early for your OCD," Russell grumbles. 

"I'm sorry my OCD schedule conflicts with yours." 

"All your schedules conflict with mine."

Russell edges in beside him. He reaches for a sponge to help wash the pans. Jon flaps his hands.

"No, no. I'm not having my teacups taste of bacon again."

"I know how to wash a plate."

"You'll get suds all over me."

"You're giving me a worse headache than the hangover."

"Aspirin's on the coffee table."

Russell rolls his eyes. He goes. Jon smiles into the sink.

There's an almighty crash from the sitting room. 

Jon's heart lodges in his throat. "Russell?" he calls. No response. 

He throws down spoons, dishtowel, water dripping over tile, over rug. And there. His hands leave damp wrinkles on Russell's shirt because. Charger cords wrapped around his ankle. Laptop on the floor and Russell—

Russell blinks. Once. Twice. Blue eyes focus on him. A hand brushes at his face; Russell's fingers come away with foam. He's grinning. 

"Who are you and what've you done with Jon?" 

Jon feels his entire body go slack with excruciating relief. "Jesus," he breathes. Russell sits up. Jon loosens his grip, but doesn't let go entirely. "Never, ever— I swear to god. Be _careful_."

"Should've done that ages ago, if I'd known it'd make you throw down the washing." Russell cocks his head. "Have I accidentally cured your OCD?"

"Adrenaline rush, you Philistine. I can't keep it up all the time."

"Might try it. Low-level adrenaline rush sounds about right for living." 

Something about the way he says it makes Jon ask, "Is that what it's like, for you?"

Russell shrugs, distracted. "A bit, yeah."

"Sounds horrifying."

"Not really."

"Is to me."

"Jon?"

"Yeah?"

"Your hands are cold."

He blinks. He's still gripping Russell's arms, the sleeves now damp through with dishwater. 

"Sorry." 

He thinks of silverware scattered in the sink, the tap still running, but his body doesn't want to stand up. Apparently kneeling beside Russell with soap-soaked hands is a stronger compulsion than cleanliness. 

Russell tugs gently on the lapels of his shirt. Jon's mouth feels dry.

"Really?"

"Objection?"

"No," says Jon. "Just. Not how I thought this would happen."

Russell laughs, "Control freak," lips chapped and burning and moulded to fit his. 

Russell kisses like he's drowning, but Jon's the one who can't breathe. Oxygen is overrated anyway, he thinks deliriously. Then Russell makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and yeah, okay, definitely overrated.

 

* * *

 

"Why him?" Jon asks later, after coffee and eggs and butter toast that he can still taste in Russell's mouth. 

"What?" 

"Mark." 

"Oh." Russell's hands momentarily stop trying to relieve him of his shirt. He sits back. "I don't know. I've known him a long time." 

"You've known me a long time." 

"Yeah, but. You're." Russell waves his hand in a way that's supposed to mean something. "You know." 

"OCD?" 

"Important," Russell says, "to me." 

He's smiling that smile he does when he's been caught: chagrined, honest. Jon thinks, _I'm an idiot._

"Is that all right?" Russell asks, and there's only one answer to that, really. 

"Yeah," Jon says, "I suppose it is."


End file.
